


Menage A Trois Of The Bat OR Sucker For A French Accent OR French Fried To A Crackly Crunch

by Dannell Lites Archivist (offpanel_archivist)



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-01
Updated: 2001-01-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:43:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/offpanel_archivist/pseuds/Dannell%20Lites%20Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightwing/Azrael/Batman WARNING! One day in the BatCave ... :):) HERE BE M/M SLASH!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Menage A Trois Of The Bat OR Sucker For A French Accent OR French Fried To A Crackly Crunch

**Author's Note:**

> This story is archived on behalf of Dannell Lites, who passed away in 2002, with the permission of her family. Posting date approximate.
> 
> ___
> 
> SPIFFY DISCLAIMER THINGIE!
> 
> Ah don't own them (more's the pity!), DC does! Ah am only borrowing them for a spell and Ah promise to return them unharmed (well, MOSTLY unharmed -- well used, but unharmed!) No infringement of copyright is intended! Ah ain't making a plug nickel heah:):)
> 
> Rated R for m/m sex! If'n such like offends ya'll then skedaddle:):)
> 
> The song "I'm On Fire" in Part Two, is used without permission but Ah like to think The Boss would approve:):)

It's got to be the accent. No way around it; it's got to be that damned French accent.

I mean, I don't even *like* Jean-Paul Valley. He makes my teeth hurt, I grind them and grit them so much when I'm around him. I can't stay in the same room with him for more than five minutes without wanting to hurt him. The man doesn't even have to say anything. In fact, he usually doesn't. He's as closed mouthed as Bruce. All he needs to do is stand there and look at me with those smoky blue eyes from beneath those brooding brows and my hand starts itching to hit him.

So how in the name of God did I end up cowering in his bed, holding onto him as if he were a life raft and I were a drowning man?

Beats the crap out of me. I have absolutely no idea.

Grayson, I told myself, you better start getting a clue here, pal, or you're going to end up in a world of hurt.

All right. He's not the first man I've been to bed with, I'll admit that. I closed my eyes in pain. No, not the first. But I'm not going to apologize for what happened between Joey and I. I guess the truth is that I'm not really sure exactly what happened there, either. Joe Wilson was a very special man. We fought together and lived together as Titans for a long time. It was a bad time for me. Bruce's rejection nearly killed my self-esteem. After the Joker's bullet wounded me he wounded me even more gravely when he fired me ... made me promise never to wear the Robin costume again. But, of course I couldn't tell *him* how badly I was bleeding. I threw myself into leading The Titans.

And there was Joey.

Jericho was beautiful. On the inside where it counts. Sure, on the outside, too. But that was just icing on the cake. When Joey died, part of me died with him. No, I refuse to apologize about Joey.

Even to Bruce.

Bruce knows, damn him. He always knows. I'm an open book to him; always have been. He took one look at Joey, his hooded eyes drifted back to rest on me and he *knew*. It was almost as if he could smell it on my skin. There I was, little Robin with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Again.

We were careful. You'd better believe we were careful. I think it hurt Joey that I insisted on such secrecy. I wasn't ashamed of him. I wasn't. But I think he thought so. I never told him how proud I was to be his lover; just let the thing lay there between us, a smothering blanket in the night. And *that* I *am* ashamed of. But I buried that kind of caution with Joey. Now, I don't care who knows. It's a natural part of who I am. Joey taught me that.

That still doesn't explain Jean-Paul does it?

Hey, don't look at me. I just went down to the Cave to practice, alright? I almost turned back on the steps down into the depths of my home away from home when I heard him. I knew it wasn't Bruce. Bruce doesn't make any noise unless he wants to, no matter what he's doing. And there was a lot of noise coming from the practice mats spread out in their bright little corner of the Bat Universe.

No, damnit! I grew up here. This was my home. Bruce and I may be waltzing around each other, watching, waiting for something or someone to define us for one another, but I refused to be run out of my own home by this interloper. I gripped my towel and stalked my way down the stone steps. The Cave was a big place. There had to be room for the two of us.

I was wrong about that.

I had no sooner began my warm-up exercises than Jean-Paul began to watch me quietly, those dark smoky blue eyes burning into my back. I don't mind an audience. But *this* audience was making me decidedly nervous and uncomfortable. I haven't quite got the hang of these new escrima sticks yet and I need a lot of practice. What I *don't* need is to muck up because I'm nervous and hurt myself.

"Something I can do for you," I demanded, my voice harsher than I had intended.

With one fluid movement, Jean-Paul rose from the sitting position in which he'd been observing me to his full height. He's almost as tall as Bruce is, I thought. Okay, sue me. I have a weakness for tall, very well built men. Joey was actually a bit more slender than my usual cup of tea. But my body was forcibly reminding me that Jean-Paul was just right. For the first time I began to believe some of the things Bruce told me about him. That's he's not entirely human, I mean. Nothing that graceful is merely human. He smiled and lowered his eyes.

"Just watching a Master," he said. My lips thinned.

"You've got me confused with Bruce," I said, coolly. Him and everybody else on the planet. His chuckled reply was musical.

"Oh no," he insisted softly, "I'd never do that." I blinked. Could Jean-Paul Valley have just complimented me? In fact, that almost sounded like it might be a come on ... I had to be hallucinating.

"Bruce is like a lion," he explained, still smiling. "All strength and power, rolling over his enemies like a force of nature, a part of the night he so craves." His gaze began at my bare feet and traveled slowly up my body taking in every detail, leaving goose flesh in it's penetrating wake. I felt naked.

"You, on the other hand," he said, "are a gazelle. Speed and agile skill with your body are your weapons." Absently, he pointed to the sticks clutched in my tight fists. "Those are just extensions of your hands."

I wanted to say something. Anything to break the awkward silence that fell like a wall between us. But nothing would come. I opened my mouth and gaped like a landed fish. Feeling like ten kinds of a fool, I blushed. I resolved then and there to kill him if he laughed.

But he didn't.

"I am here to learn," Jean-Paul pronounced. "Perhaps you will teach me? I should very much like to know how to use those." He pointed at the sticks again.

"I'm just learning myself," I stammered, "I don't think -"

"Then we will learn together, no?"

How could I refuse? From the beginning, it didn't go down well at all. He ignored my nervousness, didn't even seem to notice much less protest when I flinched from his every touch. He was driving me crazy. I swear he found every excuse in the book to touch me and to make sure that I touched him. I was one solid unresolved ache by the time I'd taught him the simplest thing like the proper way to hold the damn sticks.

"Like so?" he inquired, the picture of guileless innocence. "Uh ... no ..." I ground my teeth. "Like *this* ... " He smiled, his hand lingering on mine.

"Ah, yes!" he exclaimed. "Now I see."

Finally, I had enough. With an effort I pulled myself away from him, his warm breath raising the hairs on the nape of my neck.

"Playtime is over," I snarled. "What do you want from me, Jean-Paul? What ever it is, it doesn't have a thing to do with these!" I held the sticks up in front of me like a shield. Gently he pushed them aside and I let them fall to the floor with a clatter. They weren't going to help me. I didn't even struggle when he slid sinewy arms around me.

"The question is," he whispered in my ear, "is what do *you* want?"

Jean-Paul cupped my buttocks and smoothly pulled me closer until I was molded against the softness of the sweat pants he wore. My God, he's strong. Lifting me effortlessly, he pressed his pelvis into mine and I moaned. I wanted to wrap my legs around those slim hips and devour him. Through the cloth I could feel his flesh stir. Slipping my hands down the back of Jean-Paul's pants, I stroked the sleek muscles there. My mouth captured one of his nipples and drew hot, wet rings around it with an eager tongue I nipped at one with my teeth. He smelled faintly of salt and the earth.

"Harder!" he gasped, then groaned when I did as he asked.

Biting down hard, I suckled him like a child and he rumbled deep in his chest with pleasure. The sound and the feel of him ignited a fire in my groin that set my nerves aflame, singing a sweet song of desire. His lips found my neck and began to nibble with an agile tongue. My body arched, hips working almost against my will. This was crazy. Utterly insane. We were in the middle of the Bat Cave, for God's sake. Alfred, or worse, Bruce might walk in at any moment.

But then, that was part of the allure wasn't it? The forbidden fruit.

"Please" I whispered. "Please! Now! I need ... I need ... "

Christ, I hated the sound of my own voice just then. The desire ... the longing ... ringing in its depths left a cold emptiness in my belly. Just exactly *when* had this happened to me? This loneliness eating away at me? I didn't have a clue. It seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my soul. I couldn't believe that I was doing this. I was actually about to make love to a man I didn't even like. Was I really that alone? Hurting that bad?

Yeah, I was.

"I know what you need," Jean-Paul said with a smile that would have melted a stone. "I know *exactly* what you need ... " he assured me and moved.

We went crashing into a wall and Jean-Paul braced me against it. Slowly, I lowered myself onto the length of his penis, tight internal muscles rippling until I had all of him inside me. I gasped, gritting my teeth. God, that felt good! I loved the feeling of being filled, being consumed that overwhelmed me. It's like being a part of something bigger than yourself; like being connected, love flowing from one body to another. It's wonderful to be desired, to be needed. And it's good, so very, very, good, not to be alone.

Quickly, Jean-Paul began to thrust from his hips, each stroke taking him deeper and deeper inside me until I thought I might split down the middle. Moaning, I met thrust for thrust, clinging to the wall frantically, digging my fingers deep into it's padded surface, clawing for release. Arching into his desire, I reveled in the feel of him, the masculine taste of his pale skin still in my mouth. All too soon I felt the small internal tremblings that told me I had almost reached completion. Jean-Paul's testicles spasmed and drew themselves up close to his body. With one last massive thrust, he came, filling me with spreading warmth.

Deliberately, I set internal muscles to work rippling once more, massaging the length of his hardened flesh. Groaning with release, he trembled for an instant. I cried out as my own orgasm overtook me. Turning, I clung to Jean-Paul's strong body, shivering as minuscule echoes of my climax fluttered through me. Panting, I rested my head on his broad shoulder. After a moment, as gently as a feather floating to earth, he lowered us both to the matted floor. I didn't move but instead lay curled in his arms for as long as he would allow it. Breathing heavily, his eyes closed, Jean-Paul smiled that breathless smile once more.

"Well, little friend," he murmured, "that was good. You learn quickly."

Yeah, Bruce always said I was quick. I don't mind being a quick study, but I don't think I ever wanted to be a quick *fuck* like this.

"Look at yourself, man!" I spat in silent rage. "Nightwing, superhero at large - Richard John Grayson, the last of the flying Graysons - rutting up against a wall like an animal. Damn you!" I tried to tell myself not to be so hard on Mary Grayson's little boy Dick. Try as I did, I couldn't find a single excuse for this, though. But I did try.

It was either that or cry.

For an answer I began to kiss my way down the length of Jean-Paul's tall body. I paused at his belly button and grinned. He was an outie. Playfully, I kissed it, then nipped and briefly sucked at the small protrubence. Jean-Paul drew in a sharp breath and his back arched. Tangling his fingers in my hair, he impatiently guided my lips down to the V of his outstretched legs. Obediently, I followed. I was surprised to see that he was circumcised. The feel of him inside my body told me he was but it was still surprising. Even today, lots of European men aren't.

He had a pretty penis. Nestling amidst bright, sunshine blond curls, it thrust proudly forward, even now, like the arching neck of a great pale stallion. Reverently, I took it in my hands and began to kiss it. When I felt it stir, I smiled. Holding it tenderly I teased the tip of my tongue around the rim of the head. Carefully, I flicked my tongue in a lazy arc up the sensitive underside. With a free hand I tickled and gently stroked his testicles until I could feel them tighten in readiness for release.

Jean-Paul moaned and thrust himself deeper into my waiting mouth. My tongue lapped at him and I began moving my mouth and tongue up and down the great length of him. At his side, his hands buried themselves in the deep pile mat, clutching at it until it seemed the bones creaked. Gasping, The Batman's new protégé, my replacement, thrashed and moaned louder, body demanding release, bucking like an untamed horse.

Carefully, I began to slow my rhythm, encircling the base of his great organ with one hand. He gritted his teeth, hips pumping; but he refused to speak or cry out. Slipping a hand beneath his upraised body, I caressed the long lean muscles of his buttocks. Humming throatily, I felt the vibrations of my fleshly music travel down the length of him to set the muscles of his thighs trembling.

When I released my firm hold on the base of his penis, he shot off like a rocket, filling my mouth with his essence. I swallowed the thick salty quintessence of him. Oddly vulnerable, Jean-Paul panted like a winded predator and I held him for long moments until the trembling passed.

"Very good this time, little friend," he finally husked with that devastating smile, stroking my hair. "That was well done. You deserve a reward."

With that, he stretched me out beneath him, whispering both hands down my body. With his fingers he caressed my swelling manhood, then lowered his head. He began to lap and tease at me like a great cat. His hands reached out and began to caress and tweak my hardened, aching nipples. Tongue working furiously, he worked my stiffening flesh time and time again until I whimpered for release. My body shook and my hips began to rock themselves in an age old rythmn.

After that, I don't remember much. My dreams were filled with smoky blue eyes so dark they were almost black. I don't remember falling asleep, but I'm one of those guys who falls asleep as if they'd been clubbed, afterwards. No, I don't remember falling asleep.

But I do remember waking up in my own bed. Alone. I reached for warmth and comfort, but my searching hands found only emptiness. The sheets were cold. No one but me had lain here in hours. I sighed.

"By now you should be used to waking up alone, Grayson," I told myself, fiercely, "it isn't as if this is the first time. Or even the first half dozen. Practice makes perfect." There was no doubt about it. I had lousy luck with sex, anyway. I was sixteen when Babs broke my heart.

"It'll never work, Dick," she patiently explained to me. "I'm twenty-four years old and you're a minor." I remember how lost she looked, sitting there hunched in on herself as if she wanted to disappear. "They call that statutory rape in this state. It's got to stop." Sooner or later it always stopped.

Joey died.

Wally grew out of his crush on me.

I don't know what the hell happened with Kory.

And the Huntress ... I don't even want to *think* about her. I don't *do* one night stands.

"Well, you do now, pal." I castigated myself. "Better get used to the idea. You've seen the future and its lonely." I was reaching for the pillow to pull over my head and shut out the world when my fingers closed on something soft. And then I jumped when the thorns pricked me.

It was a single red rose, perfect in every regard, laying in wait for me on my pillow. There was no note, of course. It wasn't necessary. I didn't need my eyes to tell me who it was from. Smiling, I wondered if Alfred knew that JeanPaul had plundered one of his prize Angelfire roses. Probably. Alfred knows everything.

Humming "Le Marseillaise", I lay back down and tumbled back into sleep, surrounded by hope and the intoxicating scent of roses.

 

 

 

The morning after sucks doesn't it?

Well, I've always thought so, anyway. There you are scared spitless, finding every excuse you can, snatching at them like candy, without the vaguest idea of what to say, all vulnerable and exposed. I *hate* that. But today, I promised myself as I dressed hurriedly, is going to be different. For once I knew just what I wanted to say to Jean-Paul.

Starting with, "Thanks."

Thanks for wanting me. Thanks for making me feel worthwhile. Thanks for caring.

Hey, I can dream can't I?

I was all the way at the bottom of those endless steps, looking around eagerly for Jean-Paul before my bubble burst. I was still nervous as hell; that's why I missed it at first. There were two voices coming from the Cave ... two different sets of noises. One of them I recognized instantly, of course.

"No, that's not right," instructed Bruce. "Lead with your right foot. Otherwise you're off balance and vulnerable."

"Like so?" Jean-Paul inquired.

I frowned. There's this tiny little spot at the base of my spine where the Joker once shot me that goes numb when I'm really, really frightened.

Before I knew what I was doing, I slipped into a convenient shadow. Oh yes, I've learned an awful lot from Bruce. Not all of it pleasant. On the mats I saw Bruce guiding Jean-Paul through the motions of a complex tuck and roll, their bodies pressed very close together.

I've got to hand it to Bruce. He was handling Jean-Paul's little games a lot better than I did. But then, nothing much phases Bruce. If I hadn't figured that out by now, then I wasn't paying attention. Like an idiot I was still holding the damned rose. It was starting to wither and die and it had already lost that intoxicating sweet smell. I moved to throw it away but stopped. As I watched the two of them on the mats, my teacher and my would be lover, I began plucking the petals off one by one. You know, the old, "he loves me, he loves me not" game.

Guess which it foretold. I couldn't be sure. But I *was* sure that I could see the heaving of Bruce's chest, could sense the excitement and desire pounding in my mentor's blood. As suddenly as he had come, the younger man was gone, his kata taking him back to the weapons rack.

"You," he remarked, "look like you need some exercise." I saw him toss a bo-staff at the Dark Knight. Bruce managed to catch the yew wood weapon, but I watched his suddenly nerveless fingers tremble.

"I need - something..." I heard him agree.

When that stone melting smile blazed forth once more, I closed stinging eyes. So I didn't see Jean-Paul's face when he spoke. But I could *hear* him well enough.

"I know what you need," Jean-Paul said. "I know *exactly* what you need."

My stomach spasmed and for a moment I was in serious danger of spilling those marvelous blueberry pancakes of Alfred's all over the Bat Cave floor. I couldn't feel my feet.

Jean-Paul stepped forward lightly on the balls of his feet, blue eyes sparkling. "If you want something, mon ami, then come and take it," he challenged, his soft, lilting voice making subtle music of the English language.

Like I said: it's the accent.

When Bruce looked his opponent up and down with slow care, taking in the broad chest, the narrow waist, the flat stomach, I paled. Awestruck, I watched a single drop of salt sweat trickle from the hollow of JeanPaul's throat down to the swell of a sculptured pectoral muscle. For just an instant, it hung from the edge of one dark nipple. Then, like a coy lover, it hurried its glistening way over the washboard stomach to plunge beneath the waistband of the gi hugging his narrow hips and disappeared. It wasn't just my imagination that Bruce swallowed hard. His throat worked silently but his eyes gave him away.

You can always tell when Bruce wants something really bad. Not even anger turns his eyes quite so dark. I was almost 17 before I learned to recognize that look after an encounter with Selena or Talia. Mostly, he gets it when he wants something he can't have.

Like now. "Me," he said, as he straightened up. His grin mocked the world. "But who says you'll be the victor?"

Bruce had to grab for the bo-staff to keep it from slipping out of his traitorous fingers. He just barely caught it and Valley chuckled low in this throat.

"And if you lose," he said, with the devil staring out of his sapphire eyes, "I get *you*."

Bruce doesn't like rock and roll. Jazz is his forte. He likes the sleek mathematical progression of tones; the complexity of rhythm appeals to the puzzle solver in him. The sharp, biting beat of Gene Kruppa's drum's, the dexterous sweetness of Duke Ellington's piano or the soft cry of Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong are more his style. In particular he doesn't like Bruce Springsteen. The Boss irritates the crap right out of him. But that didn't seem to stop him now.

"Did she go away and leave you here all alone?

I gotta bad desire!

OOOO, OOOO!

I'm on fire!"

With the end of his bo, Jean-Paul reached out and divested the sweating Bruce of his mesh shirt, sending it flying into a forgotten corner. "That's better," he advised. With a flick of his supple wrist, he sent Bruce's bo-staff flying out of The Batman's unresisting hands. A heartbeat later, the former Azrael tossed his own staff aside to join it. Crouching in a defensive stance, he gestured his opponent forward with a predatory smile. And still, I listened, mesmerized, as Springsteen sang on.

"Tell me now, baby is he good to you?

Can he do to you things that you want him to?

I can take you higher!

OOOO, OOOO!

I'm on fire!

Bruce shook his head to clear it and eased forward. Their first exchange was indecisive to my well trained eye. Valley spun away from Bruce, side stepped, and unleashed a Flying Dragon Kick that left the larger man hard pressed to avoid the blow. Come on, Bruce, I cursed, you can do better than this! Quickly, Valley reached out to grab Bruce's passing ankle but he was too late. Twenty years of deadly experience let Bruce Wayne, The Batman, Gotham's Dark Knight sail past his reaching opponent, roll, and spring to his feet behind Jean-Paul. Overhead on the PA, the Boss crooned in our ears.

"Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, baby,

Edgy and dull and cut a six-inch Valley

Down the middle of my soul ..."

Almost before I could breathe, Jean-Paul found himself on the mat staring up into Bruce's bright blue, hooded eyes. How many times, I wondered, had I seen those same eyes staring down at me?

But never quite like this.

"At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet

And a freight train running through the middle of my head

Only you can cool my desire -

OOOO, OOOO!

I'm on fire!"

As he straddled Jean-Paul's prone body, I glimpsed Bruce's eyes when he stared down at the young man I had trusted with so much of myself.

"Are you sure about this, Jean-Paul," he asked quietly. Staring up at my mentor and teacher, Azrael smiled like an angel.

"Oh yes," he said softly, "I'm sure. Very sure."

Bruce let the fingers of one hand whisper up the inside of the younger man's thigh, gliding over the swell of flesh he left in his wake. I saw Jean-Paul's toes curl and Bruce smiled against the tanned skin. I remembered then that Azrael, beautiful as he is, is the Angel of Death and Vengeance. Warm, moist lips kissed their way up to the hard nub of one nipple. Covering it with his mouth, Bruce nipped playfully and I listened as Jean-Paul gasped in pleasure.

"Can you groan for me, Azrael?" Bruce demanded.

Throwing back his head and arching his back, Jean-Paul Valley obliged with a groan that made water of my knees, then pulled an answering moan from deep in Bruce's broad chest.

Then Jean-Paul leaned forward, banishing all distance between them as he pressed his lips to Bruce's. It was a chaste kiss, a seeking kiss, testing for a response that my eyes told me Bruce was more than eager to give. I swear, I could hear Bruce breathing all the way across the room. He inhaled sharply and pulled back, kissing his way down the line of Jean-Paul's jaw to his neck. I tried to tell myself to dismiss the fact that Jean-Paul was arching beneath Bruce, gasping and writhing under the caress. It was only physical. After all, Bruce was a beautiful man with a magnificent body that would tempt a saint.

And whatever else he is, hero or villain, lover or cold seductor, Jean-Paul Valley is no saint.

Jealousy is an ugly thing. As I watched them, it gripped me with bloody talons that ripped and tore at me mercilessly.

At the time it never occurred to me to ask myself which one of them I was jealous *of*.

Arching his neck, Jean-Paul's long blond hair fell across his face. But even that couldn't hide the sight of those full lips drawn into a small, round O of perfect bliss.

"Ah, Dieux!" cried Jean-Paul, "Ah! Ah!"

French is a great language for passion, isn't it?

Bruce brushed aside the strands of Jean-Paul's sweat slick hair, the feather-light tendrils teasing his nipples. He kissed his way down the muscled chest until he came to Jean-Paul's gi. With his fingers Bruce traced the outlines of Jean-Paul's hard, rising flesh through the thin cotton fabric. I had to unclench my hands. I didn't even notice the small, bleeding wounds my fingernails left behind until much later.

Joey always told me that I had a strong streak of masochism in me. I thought he was joking. But, standing there, watching the two of them make love, I was proving him righter then he ever knew, wasn't I? I glanced down at my denuded rose. On it's way out of my hand the thorns (all that was left of it now) drew blood one last time.

Bruce ghosted his lips over the hard ridges of Jean-Paul's chest. When Bruce lifted his eyes to Jean-Paul's it seemed to me that his whole body shook. From out of the roots of Bruce's dark hair a rosy sexual flush crept, spreading like fire until it engulfed his body entirely. His skin shone in the bight lights of the Cave, glowing like burnished cooper.

The same thing used to happen to Wally. Sexiest thing I ever saw. Always turned me on something fierce. Like me, he wasn't alone anymore.

Yet.

I brought my hands together loudly and started to clap slowly, methodically, the sound echoing eerily in the vastness of the Cave, reflecting back thunderously from the walls.

"Hey!" I called out to them, "that was spectacular. I'm some kinda impressed."

To his credit Bruce scrambled away from Jean-Paul and snatched at a towel to cover himself. For a moment he looked as if he were waiting impatiently for the earth to open up and swallow him. Jean-Paul only smiled that angelic smile.

"Dick ..." Bruce hissed.

"Bruce," I snarled, "if you say one more word, I'll hurt you. Honest to God, I'll find some way to hurt you. So please shut up. Just shut the hell up." He must have believed me because he remained silent. Jean-Paul studied me from out of the depths of those blue eyes. Quickly, he strode to my side.

"You are both great fools," he said pleasantly. "Neither of you can see the truth, can you?"

"You," Jean-Paul lifted my lowered chin, forcing me to look up into those startling eyes. I didn't want to, God knows. "When you dream," he inquired, "when you dream yourself into your perfect lover's embrace, whose face do you see?"

From my dreams last night a pair of smoky blue eyes stained so dark with passion they were almost black came back to me.

"Not mine, is it?" said Jean-Paul, sadly. With one long, elegant finger he traced the curve of my cheek, then lowered his hand slowly, his fingers curled neatly into his palms. I wasn't the only one whose palms would bear scars from this, I realized.

"No, not mine," he said and this time his voice was bitter as brine.

Jean-Paul's eyes don't darken like the ones in my dreams. They're always a clear dark blue, sparkling like the gems they resemble. So, he was right. They weren't his eyes. I remembered the many times I watched Bruce drive and expend himself with practice after The Catwoman lead him on another merry chase. I could almost hear Selena's mocking laughter.

No, not *Jean-Paul's* eyes.

My horror must have shown in my face. Jean-Paul nodded imperceptibly before he turned that calculating visage on Bruce.

"And *you*," he cried. "How long will you hide like this, huddling from the world and yourself like a frightened child behind your carefully erected walls of silence? Do you even know if there's anything of *you* left behind them anymore? Where is Bruce Wayne?" He lay his hands on either side of Bruce's still face.

"He's in there somewhere," Jean-Paul pleaded. "I know he is. He made love to me just now. He held me in his arms. He was happy. Bruce Wayne not The Batman. The Batman needs none of these things. But Bruce Wayne does." He stepped back to give us both a better view of him.

"Look at me," he said. "Do either of you see *me*? No, I think not. You see only one another. When you made love to me you were making love to one another. I was only the conduit." He turned to me. "I never meant to hurt you. You were alone ... and so was I. I thought - " he shook his head as if to clear it of a foolish notion. "But when I knew the truth, I thought I could help you both."

I dropped my eyes in shame. But Bruce is bolder than I am; he never wavered, only frowned slightly.

"Jean-Paul - " he began, but Azrael cut him off with an abrupt gesture, sharp like the blade of his ionic sword.

"You need each other," he declared. "You want each other. I'm not even a real person and even I can see that."

I bit back anger. "What do you mean you're not a real person," I demanded. "Of course you're a real person!" I saw Bruce nod and toss me a pleased glance, but he held his silence. He always does.

"I'm not, you know," Jean-Paul closed his eyes in pain. "The Order Of St. Dumas made me. Fashioned me the way you would craft a fine blade or an object d'art. A little of this gene from there, a bit of that animal from this DNA sequence. They designed me to kill their enemies. I have no other purpose." He reached and grabbed a handful of his beautiful long blond hair, pulled it out and threw it to the floor. Fat droplets of bright red blood trickled down his neck over his ear.

"Chamophlage," he insisted, "false beauty to hide the ugliness beneath." He reached for another handful of hair. Alarmed, I flung my arms around him to stop him before he could hurt himself again. I have no idea what I had in mind if he resisted me. But he didn't. Instead, he sagged into my embrace, laying his head on my shoulder.

"Ah Dieux!" he mourned, "pardonne moi, ah Dieux!"

It's easy to forget how religious he is. After all, he was raised a very devout Catholic by people who consider themselves priests and nuns. He's not ostentatious about it but most Sundays will find him in Gotham at St. Thomas Cathedral. There's a tiny out of the way room in the Manor that used to be a chapel when Silas Wayne first built Wayne Manor more than a century ago. It's a reading room now, but the beautiful stained glass windows are still there. More than once I found Jean-Paul there, on his knees, praying. I used to wonder, but I finally decided that Bruce believes in God. I'm not sure he believes in salvation; but he believes in God, alright.

You don't get that angry at someone or something that doesn't exist.

Me? I'm neutral.

"You've got to forgive yourself first," I told Jean-Paul, stroking his hair, holding him tightly. "God'll fend for himself."

"J'l'animal," he accused and his shoulders shook. "J'n'ai l'aime ..." My French is lousy but Bruce can parlon Francais with the best of them.

"Who told you that!" he cried. "You are NOT an animal! Don't ever let me hear you say that again! I don't make love to animals. And if you can worry about not having a soul then I think that answers that question right there." Jean-Paul almost flinched when Bruce reached out to touch him.

But Bruce was suprisingly gentle when he wiped the blood from the side of Jean-Paul's slender neck. Calmly, he pressed a towel to the seeping wound.

"You'd better have Alfred take a look at that on your way out," he said and brought a smile to my face.

"Uh huh," I assured Jean-Paul, recalling the endless bowls of hot chicken soup, fresh baked chocolate chip cookies and peanut better and grape jelly sandwiches of my youth, "Alfred always makes everything better."

Jean-Paul looked steadily at Bruce, his face still, prepared for rejection. The muscles of his jaw tensed.

"And where will I be going?" he asked subdued.

"To your apartment to gather your things," said Bruce and Jean-Paul's eyes widened. "You'll be moving in here."

"I - I *will*?" he stumbled over the simple words.

"Well, you're going to need clothes, at least occasionally," Bruce returned smoothly. "And I may be a wealthy man, but I draw the line at buying clothing for other people." Jean-Paul smiled. And this time it reached and warmed those remarkable eyes.

"Yeah," I supplied, mocking at grimness, "as a couturiere he sucks. Trust me on this. He used to dress me. White sweaters, blue blazers, button down shirts and navy slacks all over the place. You don't wanna know. It was an ugly sight."

When Jean-Paul hurried away with light, joyous steps, Bruce and I just stared at one another for a long time. There was so much to be said. Where to start? Bruce ran tentative fingers through my hair and I shivered.

"You let your hair grow," he said, apropos of nothing, stumbling in the darkness looking for a light.. He finally smiled. "I like it. It suits you."

Oh God, this wasn't going to be easy. But nothing worth fighting for ever is, is it? And I've always been a fighter. So has Bruce. I reached out and took his hand in mine. I remembered all the endless hours of practice; all the things he'd taught me. I remembered his patience and the many times he caught me safely when he was teaching me to fly over the rooftops of Gotham in the night. I was always safe with Bruce.

"Don't worry," he'd say, "I won't let you fall."

"You don't have to be afraid," I told him softly. "Everything's gonna be okay." He didn't say anything. But his eyes told me a lot about fear. He was very frightened. I squeezed his hand. At the sound of my voice his eyes grew trustful and calm.

"Don't worry," I assured him, "I won't let you fall."

The End!


End file.
